Like A Dog
by brood saint
Summary: “You grow up in a funny, little world trying to save all of these people only to realize that they’re the ones that gave you up to me in the end anyway!" Bruce - Joker encounter.


**A/N**: this literally came out of nowhere. One minute, I'm getting ready for bed, the next… Well, I got this idea in my head. This is pretty abstract, even for me. Basically a class-encounter between the Joker and Batman, post TDK (set in AU-ville, I guess). Read and review, please!

"_Tell you a joke."_

It starts with a smile and grows into a grin, and pretty soon the walls are pretty pretty red and nobody can make out if the screams are ascending or this is all just a really sick prank (it is, don't worry, but mommy is going to take _very_ good care of you).

Can't see in the dark, but that's okay because his voice is louder than anything else. Bruce knows this is the end. The end of the end. God is dead and He's sent out an Apocalypse in His wake, in the form of a laughing psychopathic clown. He doesn't quite see the irony, but maybe that's the point. Wool over your eyes and pray to something that isn't there. It'd make sense, if his head wasn't spinning bad and the only thing he could make out was the cool of the tiles beneath his bleeding cheek. Doesn't make sense, but above the screaming, comes that cold, taunting voice again…

"You grow up in a funny, little world trying to save all of these _people_ only to realize that they're the ones that gave you up to me in the end anyway! You have all these poignant rules to save you – to save _them_ – and they bypass all of them just to hand you over to the Devil. It's like art; really, you can't make this shit up."

It takes like… like… stainless steel shoved in between his molars. (Probably one of the Joker's, just to keep him gagged.) Poetic. The cape is wrapped around his hands like a bind – Teflon, for cliff diving, need to write Fox that thank-you card complete with dynamite – and he's gone. Four hours of this – maniacal teasing, lecturing, punctuated by intense aggression and pit-fall giggling. Go figure. Bruce knows he's at the bottom of the well and he's about to die. He fiddles around for a knife in his pocket – hard to move – while the Joker rambles on. Like getting your last rites from the deranged stargazer down the street who really thinks that the clouds are coming to eat him. Small blade, and he twists…

"You don't get it, do you? They sell you out, they practically _beg _me to take you off their hands – and you still want to save them? Want to fight _me_? I'd say that's unhealthy. I'd say that might just be _a little_ insane, don't you think? I mean, I'm no Doctor, but…"

There's a change, and suddenly he's close – two centimeters away from Bruce's face, breathing slow and sick. The deep raspiness of a man who can't tell if he's tied to perdition or not. The smell makes Bruce want to puke.

"You're walking against the edge of a big nowhere. You know that I _won't_ kill you."

It's there and then it's not. The brief glimpse of what made Joker the way he is – abusive father, maybe; too many nights alone staring up at the stars. It's the chaotic look in too-dark eyes that tells Bruce that maybe this was a discombobulated road that started with a normal boy, who saw truth and it drove him nuts. Over the edge. He experienced the world and he understood justice and then decided to Hell with it. A _very_ tiny part of Bruce would envy him, except there's a roadblock in his way. It comes with all of the mindless torture Joker's put him through and the hatred that runs blind.

He doesn't want pity, anyway. Joker's the type of man who wakes up one day and sees nothing in the mirror worth saving, so he takes a beloved .45 and shoots his mother cold, just to see if she'll bleed out black like her soul. The moment is gone and he's five feet away again, standing tall, babbling and waving his switchblades around like he's conducting an orchestra in the dirty walls and ceiling tiles. This insanity, it's like a disease that creeps into the dregs and wrinkles of the earth and just _festers_ there. Push one domino and everything has to get destroyed.

He can't quite cut himself free. The Joker keeps talking.

"No, you know, that's okay, too soon. Maybe you'll appreciate when you wake up in the morning. I'll tell you another joke. No, wait – I'll hit you and _then _I'll tell you another joke."

A swing and Bruce rolls over, groaning. Joker slams the iron across his face – whole new definition to pistol whipping – and Bruce feels the bruise sprout warm and nestle up along his jaw-line. It might be broken. The blood in his mouth doubles. Blearily, he opens his eyes again and stares up at His Maker, briefly considers praying to God. Might be pointless though. Joker just stares back, green hair hanging around like a mutilated halo, and there's that smile. He tilts his head and leans down, pulls Bruce close.

"I make good on my promises. Now for that joke."

Bruce shuts his eyes tight and shimmies slightly, twists onto his side. His hands pull through the hole he's cut underneath his back, and he has a minute to breathe. To think. We fall. We fall and we learn to pick ourselves back up. Breathe.

A leer and the Joker stands and moves across the room. He leans up against the wall, as if he can sense the fear and the looming fight overhead. As if he's _preparing._

"How about this one, then – what's black and white and red all over?"

Bruce's fingers tighten around the blade. He has a guess.

"_Me._"

As Batman rushes towards him and breaks his head against the glass, the Joker just keeps on laughing.


End file.
